by Juliet Lyons
“Charlie was the best of a bad bunch,” she said.
Which, coming from Melda, is praise of the highest order.
The curator, a pompous creature with whiskey on his breath, had taken a lot of convincing to release us a plot. But in the end, with a wodge of cash for the stained-glass-window fund and a good bit of glamour, we managed to agree on a pretty spot beneath a willow tree. A worthy place for a worthy man, in the cemetery he would have ended up in years ago had it not been for the First World War. After a short ceremony, we were all heartened to see his name engraved on the cenotaph in the churchyard—Charles James Elford. Even Melda cracked a smile.
“Saturday,” Esme mutters, breaking into my thoughts. “Are you sure George Whinny isn’t using a pseudonym?”
Saturday. I sit bolt upright in my seat. It’s almost three days since I messaged Catherine. She’s going to think I’m ignoring her. I snatch the phone from my desk and begin typing a text message. Sorry for the silence. We had Charlie’s funeral and we’re working flat-out to find the guy we think might be responsible. I pause, my thumb hovering over the keys. Deciding to go for it, I add I miss you before hitting Send.
“Ronin,” Esme snaps, from her seat beside the fireplace. “Pseudonym?”
I shake my head, remembering Catherine the last time I saw her, eyes dark and vulnerable. I’ll have a lot of groveling to do when I see her next.
I can’t wait.
“What would be the point?” I say to Esme. “He’s worked hard all these years to move on from his criminal days. If he’d wanted to change his name, he would have done it by now.”
Esme rolls her eyes. “Then why can’t I pinpoint this house in Surrey?”
I shrug. “Perhaps he doesn’t own it.”
Over the past few days, we’ve called every office in the country associated with the company Baverstock & Marshall. When they’ve fobbed us off—which they all too frequently have—we’ve sent someone over in person. I’ve lost count of the number of receptionists we’ve had to glamour. The trouble is, none of them appeared to be lying when they told us George Whinny’s whereabouts are currently unknown. If Vincent doesn’t come through, I might have to take Catherine up on her offer to call in her buddies at Scotland Yard.
The door opens and Harper strides in, his gaze instantly flicking to Esme curled up in the chair. The pair have developed an obvious and sickening attraction these past few days. Yesterday, Esme actually giggled. It was nauseating.
“I’m doing a Starbucks run,” Harper says, smiling at Esme. “Do you two want anything?”
Esme stretches, arching her back, and I watch as Harper practically drools at the sight. “I’ll take a no-foam soy latte. Thanks, Harper.”
“Ronin?”
“Nothing for me.”
I glance up a few seconds later to see him still loitering. “Can I have a word?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
I dart a look at Esme. “She’ll hear whatever it is you have to say no matter where we go in the building, you do realize that? Possibly even in Soho. Especially since you’ve made a big deal out of it.”
Esme grins broadly, red lips parting to reveal two rows of perfectly white teeth. “He’s right. I’ll listen.”
Harper nods. “It was something Kandy just mentioned to me, that’s all.”
“Kandy?”
“Kandy, the woman you’ve been, er, seeing.”
Esme flips the laptop closed with a snap, a smirk on her lips.
I sit up straighter, realizing he means Annie. “What of her?”
“She said last night she ran into the woman who burst in here the other day—the one with designer shoes and the snooty attitude. I can only assume she means Cat Adair.”
At the mention of Catherine’s name, my blood runs cold, a knot of dread forming at the center of my chest. “Catherine Adair was here?” I ask, my voice sticking in my throat.
Harper shrugs. “Apparently. She asked Kandy if you guys had ever slept together.”
I spring out of the seat as if tasered, ignoring Esme’s delighted grin. “Oh dear,” she drawls. “Has someone been a naughty boy?”
“Is Annie still here?” I demand.
Harper frowns. “She’s in the bar. I told her you probably wouldn’t be needing her services again today, what with everything that’s going on. I hope that’s okay?”
Ignoring the question, I barge past him into the corridor. Fear weakens me, and I stumble to the bar on shaking legs.
Annie is chatting with Paulo. She glances up when I appear and smiles. “Oh, hi, you.”
I fight the urge to seize her by the shoulders. “Catherine,” I say, my voice stripped of its usual cockiness. “What did you tell her?”
She throws a nervous glance at Paulo before saying, “The truth. That we have relations in your office.”
I sag in shock, remembering the day I made her vow to keep the ruse going or else. I can scarcely get the next question past my lips. “What did she say?”
Annie grimaces. “She didn’t really say anything after that, but she was crying. She left really fast.”
Once upon a time, I might have gotten a twisted satisfaction from hearing I’d made Catherine Adair weep. Now, I feel only horror. I run frantic hands through my hair, turning on the spot. “I have to go to her,” I say, more to myself than to Annie and Paulo. “I have to tell her it’s not true.”
“I did tell her I thought you really liked her,” Annie offers, as if it will somehow make it better.
Paulo is staring at me as if I’ve just landed from space. “Damn,” he mutters. “I guess no one is immune in the game of love.”
I stop spinning, cutting him a scathing glare. But rather than stick around to admonish him, I channel my energy into fleeing the room. Let Harper and Esme think what they want. None of it matters anymore.
Daylight comes as a shock after being cooped up in the club for the past few days, bright rays of sunshine drilling through the fluffy, gray clouds like lasers. I dive into the dingy, litter-strewn alleyway that backs onto number sixty-six and spring up onto the roof.
A whole night. It keeps running through my head as I blur across the damp rooftops. She’s spent a whole night believing I’ve been sleeping with another woman. We’re over before we’ve even began.
When I reach the door to Montague Place, I don’t bother waiting for a neighbor to follow inside. I kick at the lock, springing it free, before tearing upstairs ten at a time. A waft of lavender water and a dark shape on the floor beneath number twenty-five tells me the old lady is up to her usual tricks, but I barely give her a second glance.
Outside Catherine’s apartment, I skid to a halt, crushing the temptation to kick the front door to smithereens. Something tells me that wouldn’t be the right way to go about things.
My breathing shallow, I knock gingerly, extending my hearing to who’s inside. I hear a sharp intake of breath as the knock reverberates through the wood, and I catch Catherine’s unmistakable scent from under the door.
I keep silent. Though she’ll know it’s me, there’s a greater chance she’ll open up if I don’t speak.
A minute passes. I knock again. This time thunderous footsteps pound across the floor, and she whips the door open, a sneer on her lips.
“What do you want?” she asks in frosty tones.
My heart sinks. It’s as if we’re back to that day in my office, when she stormed in with the lawyer’s letter and called me all the names under the sun. I stare into her beautiful eyes, searching for any sign of the tears Annie mentioned. But they are hard, unyielding, like two copper pennies frozen in ice.
“I saw Annie,” I say, my hands reaching for her.
She steps back into the apartment, but before she has a chance to slam the door in my face, I whip inside, closing it swiftly behind me.
> Although Catherine is standing tall—shoulders back, chin in the air—I catch the way her fingers tremble as she folds her arms across her chest. She wears tight leggings and a loose, navy sweater. Her tiny feet are bare.
“It’s isn’t true,” I blurt out. “I swear on my mother’s memory. I’ve never slept with her.”
Catherine smiles, but not in a friendly way. A high-pitched, sarcastic chuckle erupts from her throat. “Do you really think I care?”
So, this is how she’s going to play it.
“Yes,” I say. I try to grasp her shoulders but get only air as she dodges my grasp. “You care. And I care. We care about each other.”
She shakes her head, black curls bouncing wildly around her face. “Ronin, why are you still doing this? You got what you wanted. You broke me—the bitch who hates you. You won. Point proven that, given enough time and effort, any woman is putty in your hands. Once again your penis is crowned king of the world.” She dives past and flings open the door. “Now please fuck off.”
I slam the door so hard it rattles in its frame. “No,” I say, my voice low. “That’s what you want to believe so you can go back to living in your repressed bubble, helping the whole of London’s vampire community find love and forgetting yourself in the process.”
“Ha!” she jeers. “I hadn’t realized the love doctor was in the house.”
“The truth is,” I continue, edging closer, “last night when you showed up at my club and asked Annie if we’d slept together, you asked because in some desperate corner of your brain you were hoping she’d say yes, that I’d turn out to be the bastard you always imagined. Deep down, behind the wounded pride and battered ego, you’re happy and safe again—a secret wish come true. You can go back to loving that boy from your childhood. The saintly, perfect lover who never had a chance to hurt you because he died too soon.”
At the mention of the boy in her life essence, Catherine’s eyes flash with rage. She uncrosses her arms, hands clenched into fists. “Don’t you dare bring him into this,” she warns. “You don’t know the first thing about us.”
“Don’t I?” I demand. “I know you use him like a shield—a weapon to keep yourself from feeling anything real for anyone. I know that you ruin every chance of happiness that comes your way because you won’t let go of the past. That’s your truth, Catherine, and don’t pretend otherwise.”
“Bastard,” she screams, stepping closer, her face inches from mine. “How dare you try and make this about me? This is about you being a dishonest, manipulative prick who can’t keep it in his trousers.”
I tower over her, seizing her hands in mine. “Good. Keep yelling at me. Fight for yourself, for us. Don’t leave me out in the cold.”
Her nostrils flare, a vein throbbing in her temple. “There is no us.”
I lean over her so that our faces are level. “I never slept with Annie. I made her tell everyone that we’ve been fucking because the truth is, for the past few months—probably even years—the only woman I’ve wanted is you.”
Catherine’s lip curls. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s true,” I whisper, drowning in her fresh scent. The urge to slam my lips to hers is overwhelming. “Because the fact is, Catherine, I’ve been just as repressed as you—just as afraid to let go.”
She turns her head to the side, avoiding my gaze. “Please, I’d like you to leave now.”
“I didn’t sleep with the girl at the club,” I say, gaze fixed on her profile.
Her magnificent eyes meet mine, a steely resolve swirling in their depths. “I don’t care. You’re right—I am stuck in the past. I’ll never be able to care about anyone the way I did Jonjo, and I’ll never forgive you for robbing me of the chance to finally be at peace with him.”
A surge of rage pulses through me. I release her hands, knotting my fingers into her thick curls. To my surprise, she doesn’t shove me away. Instead, we remain frozen in time, suspended in a delicate state between kissing and not kissing, her gaze flickering from my lips to my eyes and back again.
“Make no mistake, Ronin McDermott,” she pipes up. “I’ve only ever been in this for the fucking.”
I stare down into her upturned face, her eyes blazing, and realize she wants me to kiss her, to make love to her with that curious mixture of anger and passion that’s dogged us since the first time we met.
I could do it—press my lips to hers, cave in to the familiarity of our crazy, obsessive desire. With my cock hard in my pants, her delicious scent all around me, the temptation is stronger than anything I’ve ever known.
Sensing my struggle, Catherine places a hand on the straining bulge in my trousers, stroking me through the fabric. “What are you waiting for?” she hisses. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”
The expression on her face is as far from loving as it’s possible to get: lips pulled back to reveal sharp, white fangs, eyes flashing like knives.
I close my eyes briefly. Using every iota of willpower I possess, I release her and step away.
“No,” I say, my voice wavering. “Not like this. We’re beyond that now.”
A thick, unbearable silence fills the room as I watch her, waiting for her to speak. Though she still looks angry, sadness—vulnerability—lurks in her dark eyes, and I ache to wrap my arms around her, tell her that she means more to me than anything.
But before I can make my move, she turns her back on me, staring out the window at the cloudy sky. “Shut the door on your way out,” she says calmly. As if I’m a client she’s dismissing from her office.
I reach for her before dropping my hands back to my sides, knowing from the tight set of her shoulders that any attempt to hold her will be swiftly rebuffed.
“Go,” she says in a tone as hard as granite.
I obey, but at the door, I turn back, my fingers gripping the handle so tightly it almost breaks off in my hand.
“I’m in love with you,” I say, the lump in my throat making it difficult to get the words out. “That’s my truth.”
Her back stiffens. I hear a breath catch in her throat. I wait, hoping that she’ll turn around, even if it’s just to tell me to leave again. But she doesn’t move. She might as well be made of stone. Filled with sadness, I slip from the room, closing the front door softly behind me.
I stand on the pavement outside, a fine, misty drizzle clinging to my suit like gossamer. I resist the urge to go back upstairs, demand that she speak to me, drag her to Annie so she can hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. There would be no point. Catherine Adair has a crown of thorns around her heart. She’ll never let anyone in. Even without the upset of Annie, she would find another reason eventually.
Whatever this is between us was never going to end happily.
I gaze up at her closed window, pondering her words. That she’ll never forgive me for taking away her chance to be at peace with her lost lover. A sharp pain radiates from the center of my chest as it occurs to me that there is still one thing I’m capable of giving her. The only chance I have to make her happy.
Taking my phone from my suit pocket, I hit Harper’s number, fresh determination spurring me on.
He answers straightaway. “Ronin. Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay again. “I need you to find someone for me. A female vampire named Karolina Dobrescu.” Harper is silent on the other end of the line. “Harper? Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry. I’m just confused, that’s all. I mean, isn’t she the witch who can turn vampires back into humans?”
“Aye,” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “She is.”
Chapter 20
Cat
When Ronin leaves, I sink to the floor, silent tears cascading over my cheeks. After spending the whole of last night bawling my eyes out, I climbed o
ut of bed this morning with fresh resolve. Rather than scream at Ronin, allow him to see how much he’s hurt me, I decided to act as if I didn’t care. As if I’d only been with him for the physical side of things.
I should have known he’d see right through me.
His words about me wanting him to be a bastard—eerily like Sandy’s—linger in my mind.
I curl into a ball on the floor, wrapping my arms around my legs and burying my face into my knees. Could it possibly be the truth? That I’ve deliberately stopped myself from becoming close to anyone all these years? That I treasure Jonjo’s memory like a precious jewel for the simple reason that he died too soon to ever love me properly—with flaws, the way people in normal relationships do?
“No,” I mutter, shaking my head vigorously. Ronin is being an asshole as usual, using my deepest fears to disarm me because I’d caught on to him seeing other women. I try to forget the way his voice sounded right before he left, fragile and vulnerable, as if it was his heart breaking and not mine.
When he said he was in love with me.
A sudden knock on the front door echoes through the silent apartment. I’ve been so busy drowning in self-pity I didn’t hear footsteps. My heart lurches in hope as I inhale deeply, wanting nothing more than to catch the scent of Ronin’s aftershave, his familiar aroma of woodsmoke and malt whiskey. To my crushing disappointment, I realize it’s Peter—coconut shampoo and guitar strings. Wentworth jumps up from the sofa, staring at the door.
I lie still, hoping he’ll go away, but when he knocks again, I force myself to get up and make my way to the door. Before I open it, I smooth my hair down, swiping at my tears with a sweater sleeve. Not that it’ll make much difference. A blind man could tell I’ve been crying.
“Hi, Peter,” I say after I’ve whipped open the door. My voice sounds unnaturally bright.
Peter’s gray eyes are round as he gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the stubbly column of his neck. “Hi. I hope you don’t mind me coming over, but I heard shouting and I wanted to check you’re okay.” His eyes dart about restlessly over my head, as if he’s afraid Ronin will leap out at any moment.
